By Karen Iacobbo

Thursday

Feb 7, 2013 at 12:01 AMFeb 7, 2013 at 11:49 AM

The Legend of the Italian Painter

By Karen Iacobbo

The screen was up in the window of the Newport artist studio in the carriage house of the neo-Gothic mansion by the sea. Fabrizio Salvatore was hand-feeding shy house wrens. “Piccolo d’uccello,” he said in Italian, “baby bird” and petted the tiniest member of the feathered tribe.

The carriage doors were open when the lady seemed to him to float in on July sunlight. She seated herself once again in the velvet Victorian chair. Mixing paints and checking the lighting, Fabrizio observed his subject adjust her flowing auburn curls and antique rose lace gown. He cleared his throat and straightened his paint-stained shirt. He guessed she was in her thirties, as was he.

The artist began painting. For a month of Sundays, Fabrizio had gazed at the mystery lady in front of his canvas, painting her portrait in attempt to capture her soul on his canvas. Last week they listened to the latest Tommy Dorsey record; this day, Verde’s opera “La Traviata”– the fallen woman. The lady seemed to Fabrizio to be in a daydream as lovers Alfredo and Violetta sang of Violetta’s impending demise: “Gran Dio!...morir sì giovine!”

Fabrizio sang the words recalling painting portraits of ladies, back home in Pompeii, Italy, willing women he gleaned were more interested in a conquest and a discount than true lovemaking with the blond and boyishly handsome painter. He loathed making a living selling his art and wouldn’t lower his fee or his pride. Then Fabrizio’s family lost their lives and their fortune under Il Duce, the fascist leader of Italy. Tears for Alfredo and Violetta and his loss filled Fabrizio’s eyes.

The American beauty he painted smiled at him and was silent. Fabrizio blushed. Rinsing off his brush he recalled their phone call. She desired a portrait of herself and would sit for him only on Sundays just after dawn. The money she offered was irresistible so he asked no questions.

Painting, he wondered why on their every break she went for a walk by the sea. Why conversations no more than polite comments about the weather or music? Was there a man; was she alone as he? Fabrizio caught his last American girlfriend, an actress, in the arms of a woman.

A fly kept buzzing around Fabrizio’s paints, eluding his attempts to swat it. The fly landed on the lady’s apple-like cheek. The aloof woman placed her slender fingers to her face; the fly climbed into her hand; she carried the fly outside and returned to her seat.

Never had Fabrizio seen such kindness. This was a lady, the rare woman for which a man wrote poems, sang songs, painted pictures. He fell in love. The painting session ended and she departed.

The next morning he napped in the Victorian chair and dreamt they waltzed in the neo-Gothic mansion at a ball – she in the gown, he in an antique suit, in 1893, on a Saturday. When no one was looking he kissed her lips.

A bearded man Fabrizio knew was her fiancé burst into the ballroom and yanked her arm. She screamed and struggled. He slapped her.

“Veronique, how dare you play the whore!”

he yelled.

The crowd gasped. Veronique stumbled.

“I will never marry you. No matter what arrangement my family has made for my fortune.”

Veronique bolted from the ballroom. Fabrizio raised his hand to strike the man’s smirk. The fiance’s fist caught Fabrizio, sending him to the marble floor.

He awoke in the Victorian chair rubbing his aching head, trembling - the dream seemed that real. A week passed. The lady was seated in the chair. Fabrizio was dabbing paint on his brush and agonizing. Should he proclaim his love; should he tell her of his dream? His hand shook and smeared inches of the portrait.

“No!” he shouted. She went outside and he saw her watching gulls soar. His unsteady hand had done no harm. He dashed outdoors to say he would be done next session. She was nowhere in sight.

Weeks passed. He walked along the shore each day, his head down. Had he driven her away? He went into the studio, picked up the new art book, and flopped onto the chair. Art would console him.

After devouring pages of paintings, he gasped and did a double-take at the sight of a sorrowful face. His mystery lady!

He laughed. No. The painting was dated 1893.

An ancestor. The name was famous, from

Newport society.

That night he fell asleep on the beach. In his dream he heard the fiancé shout.

“You are mine, mine! I will never let you go. Without me you are ruined!”

The dawn fog rolled in. Fabrizio could barely see Veronique as he chased her down the shore. She walked into the ocean.

“Veronique, I love you!” he shouted and fell into the surf.

She walked in the waves until he could see her no more.

He awakened from his dream at dawn on Saturday soaked with sweat. Fabrizio got up from the sand, inhaled the fresh sea air and returned to his studio. She was gone; he had to accept that. Unable to relax, he finished the portrait. He poured himself an anisette and sat on the chair.

Fabrizio opened the art book. He dropped

his anisette. There where the sad ancestor’s painting had been was his painting of Veronique! She was smiling, dressed in the gown. He was sweating. His heart pounded in his chest like the beating of a sea bird’s wings.

He slept on the beach. Veronique walked out of the water at dawn and came to him. No one ever saw Fabrizio again. Visitors to Newport still talk about The Legend of the Italian Painter.

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